The world, my friends, is a carnival of madness. It’s a great house of mirrors, distorted reflections of freedom, liberty, and righteousness bouncing off each other like drunkards at a 2 a.m. happy hour. But there’s something more dangerous, more insidious creeping around the edges of this frenzy — protests of convenience. Yes, we’ve reached the point where the truly righteous cause, the angry cry of the working class, has become yet another style statement for the elites who have, in their infinite wisdom, decided to co-opt rebellion as a goddamn fashion trend.
I’m talking about the so-called “activists” in their perfect hoodies bearing the logo of a movement they don’t understand, the ones who waltz into protests at the crack of noon, slapping on the latest brand of overpriced protest gear – a smug look on their faces as they make their way to the front of the rally, where they stand, hands in the air – giving a peace sign, shouting slogans they don’t understand, then head back to their designer homes for a quiet evening of Sauvignon Blanc and a TED Talk on how to be a “better ally.”
Meanwhile, the people who truly care about the cause — the ones who’ve had to fight tooth and nail for every scrap they’ve ever earned — are either at work or trapped in the grind of a soul-crushing existence, too busy to attend a protest that requires both time and money. These are the people whose voices are absent from the protest because they can’t afford the luxury of “activism.” These are the real rebels, not the imposters in their shiny sneakers, posing like a bunch of Instagram models for some protest photo op.
The absurdity of it all is mind-boggling. When did the rebellion become an accessory? When did the color of your protest sign start matching the latest fall collection? This whole charade is a mockery of the real struggles people face every damn day, and it stinks of privilege, the kind that’s been washed clean by the high-end detergent of affluence. It’s a sick joke, the only punchline being that the joke’s on us, the ones stuck in the real world, the ones whose sweat and blood fuel the engines of society while the top 1% prance around with their shallow slogans like they’re saving the world by wearing it on their sleeves.
If you can wake up at 11:00 AM, pour yourself a cup of artisanal coffee, and stroll down to a protest, then you’re not a revolutionary. You’re a consumer, and your revolution is nothing more than a marketing campaign. You’re not fighting the system, you are the system — drenched in privilege, insulated from the pain, too busy clicking “like” on social media to bother actually changing anything. Your protest isn’t about justice. It’s about getting that perfect Instagram shot, capturing the moment when you stand in front of a police officer for a few seconds, then head back to your multi-leveled house complete with an elevator to get some rest before your next shopping spree.
The irony of this performative activism is enough to make any sane person’s head spin. It’s a grotesque parody of what it means to stand up for something, to make real change. The working class can’t afford the time, energy, or trendy protest gear to join the revolution. They’re too busy dodging pay cuts, dealing with unpaid overtime, or making sure their children don’t go hungry. But they won’t be the ones standing in front of cameras with their flashy protest merch, yelling about injustice. No, that’s left to the ones who have the luxury of pretending.
So, my fellow citizens, the time has come to recognize the difference between true rebellion and its hollow, bourgeois counterpart. Protests of convenience — where the wealthy, the pampered, and the over-educated gather to show their feigned outrage — are nothing more than an indulgence. They are an affront to the real revolutionaries, to the ones who fight because they have no other choice. So, as you sip your $10 cold brew and tweet about injustice, remember this: the revolution will not be televised, and it sure as hell won’t be sponsored by your overpriced activism gear. It’s time to wake up and smell the blood on the streets of real change.
Until then, keep your designer protest T-shirts on, your Instagram filters primed, and your “I’m here for the cause” mantra rehearsed, but don’t fool yourself: you’re not a hero. You’re just another cog in the machine, trying to sell the world on your version of change — one hashtag at a time.